


Five Times Chris Evans' Biological Clock Directly or Indirectly Resulted in Anthony Mackie Being Led into Temptation (And One Time Mackie Did The Leading)

by zarabithia



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the making of The Saddest Pop Project From a Former Boy Bander Ever, super amazing guitar player Anthony Mackie does not quite manage to avoid temptation.  He's a little distracted by the need to dodge bad gumbo, beer pong, hideous raccoon chairs, and terrible songs about dirt, trucks, and beer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Chris Evans' Biological Clock Directly or Indirectly Resulted in Anthony Mackie Being Led into Temptation (And One Time Mackie Did The Leading)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alliterate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliterate/gifts).



**I.**

The first time Anthony Mackie met Chris Evans, Evans was already an established pop star.

Importantly, this did not mean that Anthony had a poster Evans on his wall. But Pratt totally did. Just because Anthony's decidedly-not-yet-a-popstar (god, not that he wanted that - who the fuck wanted to be a sellout grown-up boy bander?) music career was desperate enough to include the necessity of sharing an apartment with a hair dresser whose musical tastes were _utterly awful_ did not mean that Anthony was responsible for the bordering-on-soft-core porn poster that Evans did to promote his first solo album. Anthony was certainly not the person responsible for placing the poster _in the living room_.

He was the person responsible for placing the poster in the drawer in the coffee table when company came over.

Yes, he did have a poster of the bordering-on-soft-core porn poster that Evans did to promote his second album. But fuck anyone who judged, man, because the guitar in that poster had been the kind of instrument that dreams are made of, and Anthony would fight anyone who said otherwise - including his roommate.

That poster was allowed to stay up when company came over.

Including Chris Evans, himself, who looked at it with a special kind of frown that Anthony was sure didn't deserve to be sent in the direction of the guitar in that poster at all. So Anthony silently judged Evans' not so silent judging and refused to offer him a beer.

"Interesting shoot, for that album cover," Evans said eventually.

"Don't judge the guitar," Anthony retorted seriously.

Evans smiled then, and it was absolutely the kind of blindingly bright smile that was appropriate for a man who had been melting the hearts of anyone sexually attracted to men since the dude had been 13. Evans was not Anthony's type, but the smile was enough to make him think about offering Evans a beer.

He didn't, though. His will power was strong.

"I did all the judging of you with guitars last night at your show," Evans answered. He leaned against the crappy chair that Pratt had insisted on buying when the old one got puked on by a certain drummer's brother's drunk ass friend. The new one wobbled under the weight, and Anthony briefly wondered if "puked on by a friend of Hemsworth" was a better way to go out than "squashed to death by an Evans."

"Yeah, you mentioned. And while everything you said was pretty good for stroking my ego ... this whole showing up at my apartment is kind of weird."

"Your manager said you wouldn't mind if I just stopped by."

Well, god bless Cheadle for looking out for all of Pratt's hopes and dreams, Anthony figured. Too bad Pratt was off doing his actual job; it must suck to have a job that required being out and about during the day, especially when your heroes decided to show up at your apartment and have talks with your roommate.

"I don't mind," Anthony assured him. "It's just usually, people at your level of success have meetings. Or some shit."

Mind, Anthony didn't actually rub elbows with musicians as rich as Evans on most days. But before Tom had joined the band and made it his life's work to include drummers with brothers who had questionable friends, Tom had spent time as a studio musician for people as rich as Evans. Tom told many, many stories about meetings.

They sounded like hell, and the wince that came over Evans' face was enough that Anthony gave in and offered the man a beer.

Evans accepted it before he revealed, "I hate that shit, y'know? It's not ... it's not what music is supposed to be." He glared at the guitar poster slightly, and actually sat down in Pratt's unholy chair. To Anthony's amazement, the chair did not break. Maybe it was feeling Evans' sad sob story too. "But then, a lot of my career has been that way."

"Is this the part where I feel bad for your success and wealth and fame?" Anthony asked and Evans looked so broken up at that, that Anthony thought maybe he should offer another beer, or a blow job, or something. But no, his will power was stronger than Pratt's, so instead, he just pointed out. "I'd like to, dude, but you're at a point in your career where you can literally do whatever you want. So if you're unhappy with your situation, change your situation."

Jesus help pretty white boys who become famous, Antony thought; Anthony's band better never make it past the minor leagues, because Hemsworth would be done for.

"It's not always that easy," Evans denied, and his face turned an interesting shade of pink that could have been embarrassment or anger.

Anthony wasn't really in the mood for either. "Sure it is. You've been famous and rich and at the top of every chart since you were 13 fucking years old."

"I was in a boy band," Evans pointed out, which wasn't really something that needed to be said, because once you were in a boy band everyone fucking well knew you were in a boy band.

"You haven't been in a boy band for what, ten years? Despite the fact that the little shy kid keeps following you to recording sessions - "

"Seb is a good kid, and I'm lucky to call him a friend," Evans protested.

"Yeah, yeah, Pratt's a good friend too, but he still brought home a chair that looks like a first grader painted raccoons on it. Stay focused, Evans," Anthony answered.

Evans laughed then, because Tom had been right - rich dudes were either completely egotistical pieces of shit or they got off on people telling them that they are full of shit. Weirdos, Anthony decided right then and there.

"You shoot just as straight when you're sober as you do when you're drunk after a show," Evans said with a fondness that was completely not necessary at the moment.

"Yeah, and here's some more straight shooting," which wasn't actually straight shooting at all, because Anthony hadn't thought he was straight in about fifteen years, but that was not really relevant to the conversation. "You have enough clout that you could record your next album in your basement, release it on the sly, and it would still break iTunes' records, whether it is the shit you're doing now, an album full of love songs devoted to your favorite waffle house, or an entire album full of duets with Santa Clause's elves."

"I don't know," Evans mused. "Duet albums don't sell for shit."

"Well, that's true," Anthony admitted. "Maybe hold back on the elves."

"No elves," Evans agreed. "But I'd like to include you."

Anthony had a band. He did. But his band was composed of five guys who had no actual musical taste in common, other than a desire to keep putting food on the table - which didn't count as an actual musical taste so much as it counted as a survival instinct. It was possibly another survival instinct that made him say, "I'm listening," instead of showing Pratt's favorite celebrity crush to the door.

"I'm getting closer to 40," Evans said, which Anthony knew was a lie because Pratt had celebrated the man's birthday back in June and 33 was no where near 40. "And at my age - "

"I am older than you, dude."

"At _our_ age," Evans corrected with a smirk, and Anthony sighed and let the man continue his speech. "You start to think that maybe music should be about more than all the free sex and beer that you can get. You start to think that maybe the music you make will be the kind of music that you pass down to your kids, and say 'this is who I used to be.' I've been thinking about that more lately."

"You knock some body up?" Anthony asked, because the pause in the conversation required that he ask _something_.

"No," Evans said. "But I'd like to. Someday. Maybe soon. But before then, I'd like to make at least one goddamn record I'm proud of and that people will actually buy." A sheepish shrug followed before Evans added, "And I need a good guitar player to make that happen."

Anthony thought about it, because part of him wanted to be a loyal band-mate. But every session with his band these days was just building up for an epic _Behind the Music style_ breakdown. Their time was coming to an end, and Anthony saw no reason that he shouldn't take advantage of the gift that he was being offered.

"I'm never playing that 'I Know What You Did Last Summer' song," Anthony told him.

Evans shook his head. "I didn't record that. I think that was ... mmm, N'Sync. Backstreet Boys, maybe. You're probably thinking of 'Not Another Teenage Love Song," and god, no. My official policy is to pretend it doesn't exist."

"Fine." Anthony gestured to the poster on the wall. "But if you want me, you gotta give me that guitar."

"Mmm. I'm not sure I want you that much. It's a classic."

"Think of the kids, Evans. Your tiny future kids who want a good album of daddy's to listen to."

Somewhere between the ensuing laugh and the highly unnecessary grabbing of the left side of Anthony's chest, Evans agreed to the deal.

~

**II.**

The thing was, Anthony had never been a big fan of the boy band era that Evans was trying so hard to get away from. If Anthony wanted to listen to some boy bands, there were better. Hell, if Anthony wanted to listen to some boy bands from _Boston_ , there were better choices than Fantastic 4.

 _Don't mention ANY OTHER BOY BAND FROM BOSTON_ , Pratt texted him while Anthony was waiting on Evans to arrive at the studio.

 _Some kind of rivalry?_ Anthony texted back.

Anthony had known a kid from Boston; they made them different in Boston than New Orleans. Lots of fronting about how he was the most ganster gangsta to ever exist, and yeah, the one time the kid had taken Anthony back home to Boston, their waiter had spent the whole time talking his recent role in a Revolutionary War reenactment.

Boston seemed ridiculous; rivalries between boy bands from Boston seemed even more ridiculous. If New York wasn't so important, Anthony was pretty sure he'd tell the entire East Coast to suck it and move elsewhere.

Not to the West Coast though, because god, they were even more terrible.

 _When Chris and ScarJo were tween sweethearts, one of the other boy banders said something gross to her. She punched him, of course, but Chris still hates the asshole,_ Pratt texted back.

 _Is this confirmed, or is this from the Internet?_ Pratt spent a little too much time on the Internet, but he also had the kind of friend-of-a-friend connections that being a hair-stylist could get a person. So it was often necessary to clarify where his information was coming from.

_The make-up stylist you liked? He's done ScarJo's hair. Came straight from her lips. By the way, I invited him to come chill at the place while you're in LA_

_You don't need my rent money, then? Nice._

_Are you kidding? We absolutely need your rent money. We already spent his on beer pong._

_Should have spent it on a new fucking chair_.

Anthony was in the middle of a much longer rant about that goddamn raccoon chair when he heard someone clear their throat. He glanced up to see a face that couldn't help but be familiar to anyone who had lived through the 90s, and sent the shortened rant about the chair to Pratt.

"Interesting hair choice," were the first words he said to Sebastian Stan.

The kid gave a small smirk and ran his hands through the bleach-blond hair. "Yeah? That's the kindest thing anyone's had to say about it so far."

"Nobody likes seeing their Sebby doing a Sid Vicious impersonation?" Anthony guessed.

The kid gave a heavy sigh. "At some point, people _are_ going to stop calling me Sebby."

"Seb?" Anthony offered, because being an C+ level musician with A+ guitar skills meant that he didn't have to cater to the egos of former boy banders.

The sigh was replaced by an eyeroll. Alright, Anthony could work with that. Man wasn't too full of his own shit. "You know, I can't believe I was going to actually spare you wasted hours waiting on Chris. I should have just let you sit here and engage in bored texting for the rest of the night."

"I've already wasted hours." Anthony glanced around the studio and felt a twinge of annoyance that was only slightly distracted by the knowledge that he was going to be free to wander around LA for the rest of the day with a paycheck that made it worth it. "What's a few more at this point?"

The laugh that came out of Stan at that point was the same kind of laugh that Anthony directed in the casual direction of the bathroom each time that Pratt yelled loudly that he'd managed another seven pound turd.

What the hell, maybe Chris Evans' life goals revolved as much around shit as Pratt's life goals. Previous taste in music seemed to be saying yes, if anyone was asking Anthony.

"Yeah, he's a bit ... scatter-brained sometimes in the studio. Usually it's beer pong and philosophical discussions about how his career might have gone differently if the Fantastic 4 hadn't been a thing."

"Well, he's not even here, so I can't kick his ass at beer pong," Anthony said with mock disappointment. Too many dudes named Chris in his life who worshiped beer pong, Anthony noted with an internal memo to not allow anymore pretty white dudes named Chris into his life unless they were ready to declare personal vendettas against beer pong and all the unholy worshipers of the sport. More ballroom dancing was needed in his life and less beer pong.

"He got distracted by a phone call with an ex," Sebastian explained. "It was an ex the mom liked, so he has long since held the opinion that she was The One."

"And the fact that his biological clock is clicking loud enough to be heard in Australia, I'm guessing he's not showing up for the rest of the day?"

"Mmm. He flew her home to Boston. For tacos."

On one hand, Anthony hoped that tacos was some sort of code that he didn't know about, because who the fuck flew an ex-girlfriend 3000 miles to get tacos? On the other hand, Anthony hoped it wasn't code at all, because "one time I worked with a guy who flew 3000 miles just to buy his girlfriend tacos" beat the hell out of Zeppelin's boring ass shark story.

"So... the project is shelved?" Anthony asked. He was a little disappointed, to be honest, because the pay was _really_ nice, and because in truth, the music had been pretty good.

"Nope. The Winter Project's still on, but we have the weekend off." There was a pause and a shrug. "He really likes Boston, so he probably won't come back until next Friday, actually. I've never known him to spend less than a week back home at a stretch."

Well, Anthony could respect that. He was planning on leaving Evans' apparent homesickness out of the story when he told it later; it ruined the hilarious aspect of the taco hunt to be honest.

"Right. He's got my number when he wants to get back to work."

Sebastian nodded and went off to rescue the bass player from a day of waiting on Chris Evans. Atwell's groan of frustration was the last thing that Anthony heard as he exited the studio.

~

**III.**

LA, as it turned out, was actually boring as hell. Anthony spent exactly four hours trying to find a "New Orleans style bar" that actually had some clue what they were talking about.

 _Their gumbo sucks and they don't have a fucking clue what milk punch is_ he was texting to Pratt at 12 in the morning. In the absence of decent milk punch, he was sitting in his hotel, watching Khloe and the girls.

He had consumed enough beers at this point that he was truly beginning to think that any one of Khloe's sisters could make a better fucking gumbo than LA. It didn't even make sense. There had to be people in LA who had fled New Orleans and gone west instead of east. There had to be.

Apparently, none of them could cook worth a damn, though, or make a drink.

 _But do they have hot sausage po'boys?_ Pratt texted back.

 _No._ It was a simple response, because a restaurant that didn't serve hot sausage po-boys didn't deserve more than a goddamn solitary word of dismissal.

_Well, FUCK THEM._

_You're from MINNESOTA, Pratt, your feelings do not get to be this strong about po'boys._

_When you're done with your super amazing gig, we should fly back to your brother's place, crash on his couch, and go down the street to get some. Again. Eat them until I have had enough to be an honorary New Orleans dude._

Ah, his brother. The professor, or the one who always had a good reason to sigh and casually ask if Anthony needed help leaving a tip. "Being in a band is a long way from ... Julliard," Calvin liked to say. Repeatedly. Because sometimes brothers were dicks.

_You will never be honorary enough to have opinions about po'boys, my little maple long john._

_This thing you do, where you nickname your friends after pastries? It's weird, man._

_Keep crying about it, I won't have Pratt maple long johns in my future restaurant_

_Aw, man, you gonna serve maple long johns with milk punch and jumbo?_

On screen, Khloe was judging her sisters' life choices and Anthony was thinking that he'd just made a pretty awful implied promise, because who the hell would serve maple long johns at a New Orleans themed restaurant - when his phone rang and saved him from having to definitely answer Pratt's question.

It was an unrecognized number calling him after midnight, so Anthony answered in a way that was perfectly reasonable, "Unless you're offering a bigger check than Evans, you will forever be an uncooked pot of dumplings. Not the good kind either. The kind with raw chicken. You aren't even a pastry. You're a bastard cousin of a pastry that someone probably forgot to put enough buttermilk into."

There was a pause on the other end, before Sebastian Stan's voice answered him back, "I grew up in a boy band and this is still the weirdest thing anyone's ever said to me on the phone."

"I'm an original, man." Anthony leaned his head back on the bed and pressed mute because talking to someone you were supposed to be in a band with had to be more important than watching Khloe and her girls. Besides, ugh, who wanted to listen to Chris Humphries' bullshit? Damn E! and their constant re-runs. "What's up?"

"I was calling to see what your feelings were about karaoke," Sebastian answered. "But now I'm not sure. I'm not even a pastry. I think I need to be upgraded to a pastry before I invite you to come sing with me."

Anthony glanced around the hotel room, including the rest of the six pack. He wondered, idly, if his sister's warning about dying in an unusual fashion could apply to karaoke. People in LA were weird, people got heated about karaoke - what if he died because someone got really intense feelings about his obviously amazing singing and threw a well-aimed bottle? What if he died because people were still pissed that he'd called Gosling "my little vanilla petit four" on Twitter?

People needed to let that shit go, though, seriously.

Still, he was just drunk enough that dying from flying beer bottles in LA seemed like a more interesting choice than sitting around a hotel room and getting drunker and drunker while Humphries continued to talk out of his ass.

"Doesn't anyone recognize you?" Anthony asked as he climbed into the car next to Sebastian. The car that was not a cab, because the West Coast was weird, and god, who thought he'd ever miss New York this much? "You've been famous since you were what, 12 years old? How do you do go off to do karaoke and nobody recognizes you?"

Sebastian waved his hand in the general direction of the backseat, and upon turning to inspect the contents, Anthony shook his head. "Oh, hell no. Unlike the rest of the south, New Orleans has good taste in music. We don't do country."

"You don't do boy bands either and yet, you're going to be on an album with two former boy band alums," Sebastian reminded him.

"My brother and sister actually listened to Fantastic 4. Calvin still thinks the second solo album was some sort of musical genius - "

"Sunshine was amazing," Sebastian agreed. "Even if nobody bought it."

Anthony did not say that he bought it because of the amazing guitar that had graced the cover and all of the promo materials. Nobody buying it explained the rapid switch back to incredibly boring and predictable pop, Anthony figured. So that's what this current project was about? Making a Sunshine that would actually sell to the masses? Interesting.

"And my roommate has an honest to god's crush bigger than this entire damn state. Plus, the music is good. There are legitimate reasons to agree to work with former boy banders. There are no legitimate reasons to listen to country music. Dirt, trucks, and beer. That's all it is. I will take your boy singing about numbers with the rest of you trying your best to do some culturally appropriative break-dancing in the background before I will listen to someone crying about dirt, trucks, and beer."

"You can't judge the entire genre by the current shit," Sebastian said huffily. "That's like judging pop music by Justin Bieber instead of The Beatles."

"There is room in my heart to judge both of them equally," Anthony retorted.

"Who the hell hates the Beatles?"

"People with good taste. Cooked dumplings, not raw ones."

The outraged cry of indignation at insulting the Beatles was always one of Anthony's favorite bonding moments with strangers and he was pleased to see that it was holding true this time around as well.

 _Insult Hank Williams next,_ Pratt encouraged midway through Sebastian's third song.

 _I look forward to it,_ Anthony promised _._ An hour later, watching Sebastian craddle the guitar while cooing earnestly from beneath his cowboy hat, Anthony was beginning to look forward to something else entirely.

~

**IV.**

Three days after Chris Evans fucked off to Boston to buy his girlfriend tacos, Anthony was enjoying an up close and personal view of Sebastian Stan's ridiculous bleach blond hair sans cowboy hat and wondering how ill-advised it would be to fuck someone his pseudo-boss kind of considered a baby brother.

He _had_ just received a lovely voice mail from Cheadle informing him that yes, Evans still wanted him in LA, and yes, Anthony was still employed. God bless good managers who could resist telling their clients that their 2 a.m. freak-out calls were fucking ridiculous.

"It's alright," Cheadle had told him at 2:15. "Working musicians take a while to get used to not being in the feast or famine mode. Evans is a bit eccentric, but he's a good man and his checks always keep coming and keep clearing. Just enjoy your paid vacation and if anything changes, I'll be sure to let you know."

Enjoying his vacation was something he could definitely do, because while Calvin might be the professor of the family, the whole "not being at Julliard" thing was making Anthony the one who wait on his steak across from the current Grammy nominee for Best Pop Solo Performance, along with her stylist, who may or may not also have been her girlfriend.

It wasn't gentlemanly to ask, and Anthony's Mama had raised him better than that. Besides, whether or not Zoe Saldana was fucking her pretty red-headed stylist was not in Anthony's top ten concerns at the moment.

_When did scrawny uncooked, raw chicken dumplings become my type?_

_IS THIS ABOUT EVANS? ARE YOU BAGGING EVANS? MAD RESPECT FOR YOU RIGHT NOW._

_No and no. Also no. LA has better tacos than gumbo though._

_What? This metaphor confuses me._

_It's not a metaphor. Anyway, Evans isn't really an uncooked, raw chicken dumpling._

_Who is, then?_

Anthony ignored Pratt, both because Zoe was giving him the kind of irritated look appropriate for people who spend too much time on their phone during dinner and because he was now wondering what kind of pastry was appropriate for Evans.

"I think he deserves something with buttermilk," Anthony said to Sebastian. "Tell me you don't look at Evans and think 'buttermilk.'"

"I don't really," Sebastian claimed, which was a sign that too much bleach had gotten to his head, really. "Wait, is this an attempt to associate him with a pastry?"

"All my friends," Anthony said with a nod.

"Am I ever going to be upgraded to an actual pastry? Instead of uncooked, raw chicken dumplings?" In the pale light of the steak house, Sebastian's bleach blond hair occasionally gave the appearance of blue streaks. Anthony resisted the urge to run his fingers through streaks that weren't there, but only just barely.

"No," Anthony answered.

"If we're doing pastries, it has to be something simple, homey, and probably something he learned to make from his mother," Zoe informed Anthony, and hell, she'd won a Grammy for the collaboration she and Evans had done, so other than Sebastian, she probably knew Evans the best out of anyone sitting at this table.

"His mother is a gift," Sebastian informed Anthony. "Used to run our fan club, you know?"

"Two of her sons were in it," Karen reminded them, which yes, was a very valid point. "One of whom was very, very young."

"We were all young," Sebastian said, and Zoe rolled her eyes, which made Anthony love her a little more than he already did. "But no, it wasn't like .... Destiny's Child, where you know Beyonce's parents were really only in it for Beyonce. Mrs. Evans loved all of her little strays. Would have bailed all of us out of jail in a heart beat. Used to keep us stocked in cinnamon rolls, too."

"Buttermilk cinnamon roll," Anthony decided in that moment, pleased with his decision. "That's what Evans is."

"Why does he get to be a cinnamon roll, and I get to be uncooked raw chicken dumplings?" Sebastian demanded. "Is it the hair? Nobody likes the hair. You said my hair was interesting."

"Your hair is fine. Except for when you're covering it up with a cowboy hat," Zoe told him. "Honestly, if you want that country career, just go for it already and quit pining and hiding under a faux-punk exterior."

"I's all dirt, trucks and beer," Anthony chimed in, because it was an important point.

"It really is all 'I'm hot, you're hot, let's fuck in a truck.' None of the classic heart anymore," Sebastian moaned. "Besides, Nashville would never accept a former boy bander. They have a reputation to maintain, even if they are selling their soul for more dirt, trucks, and beer."

Moaning. Good Christ, stop with the moaning. Anthony was only human, after all.

"That's why you're a raw, uncooked dumpling," Anthony told him. "All these unfulfilled dreams of country stardom."

"Mm. I don't know that the hair would work at all. Even without the cowboy hat - which, yes, looks terrible, the color is a bit . .. off for your complexion," Karen argued. "By the way, do I get to be a red velvet cake? Never had any until I came to America, but oh goodness, definitely worth the trip right there. You should try selling that as your slogan instead of 'freedom for all' schtick."

"It'd be more a honest slogan. And more tasty," Anthony agreed. "Unless it came from Bobby Flay, because that man once tried to serve someone brown red velvet cake."

"You know Bobby Flay?" Sebastian asked and Anthony laughed.

"No, but Pratt and I watch a lot of Food Network," he explained. And then, because everyone was not familiar with his maple long john, he offered, "Pratt's the roommate back in New York. Hair dresser. Does a mean french braid, but also did my sister's hair for one of her friend's weddings and did not fuck it up."

Zoe perked up at this information. "I've been looking for a new hair stylist," she said. "Karen does a great job with the clothes, but the current hair and make-up team are just really not selling the look I want. If he can handle your sister's hair, he might be able to handle mine."

Let nobody ever say Anthony wasn't a good bro, because he wrote Pratt's number on a napkin and slid it across the table.

Ten minutes later, Anthony could hear Pratt's enthusiastic "Yes I can move to LA if I'm hired," and they had lost the ladies entirely to the planning of Pratt's Great Hair Audition.

"You want to ditch this place?" Sebastian asked, and it was just a little too close to Anthony's ear to say no.

~

**V.**

"Chris is coming home tomorrow." Sebastian was leaning off the side of the bed, ridiculous blue and white stripped shirt half-unbuttoned and the pants tight enough to be painted on - which meant they were going to be a hell of a struggle to get off - and his phone was in his hands, when Anthony came back into the hotel room. Anthony had decided to go out for breakfast, which had been a terrible idea but not as terrible as trying to go out for gumbo five days before.

He placed a vanilla petit four in front of Sebastian and shrugged. "Yeah, I got the message too."

It came in between numerous Pratt texts of "YOU ARE THE BEST" and one from Renner both thanking him for the new job as Saldana's make-up guy and urging him to tell Stan to get better waterproof eyeliner. Anthony did not know, nor did he care, what that was about, and for fuck's sake, you didn't insult the eyeliner of the man you were casually sharing a bed with so that comment was going to go unsaid.

Cheadle had also called, which made him pretty much the best manager there had ever been. If Anthony ever won a Grammy, he was going to thank Cheadle before anyone else, because the man deserved that kind of loyalty for the rest of his life.

"It will be nice, getting back to work," Sebastian said. But he sounded as sincere about it as someone might sound if they were to say, "It will be nice, getting that root canal."

"I hear he's not getting married," Anthony relayed. He ate his own bagel, which was not quite as good as the ones back home. LA mostly made him miss New York and New Orleans food. The only thing good about LA was their tacos, and apparently, if you asked Evans, tacos in Boston were better. "Which I guess he's super bummed about."

"He wants to marry somebody who wants to live in Boston, but he keeps trying to meet them in LA." Sebastian sat up, and there was a ring of flour around his nose thanks to the vanilla petit four. It was almost charming. "He is literally going out of his way to make himself unhappy."

"Kind of like a guy who keeps playing the wrong genre of music?" Anthony suggested.

Okay, maybe that cut a little too close to home, but he did _not_ deserve to have a vanilla petit four thrown at his head. Anthony shook the remaining flour out of his hair and scowled. "Don't be throwing perfectly good pastries at me just because you are unhappy with your life choices."

"Sorry," Sebastian said. "Also, you missed some." He gestured to the crown of Anthony's head and Anthony sighed and tried to shake it out some more.

"No good. You might have to borrow my hat," Sebastian suggested.

"Black man in a cowboy hat this close to Hollywood? That's something you don't see every day," Anthony complained, because he tended to be cranky when people threw pastries at him. Then, in an effort to get the conversation back on track, he said, "It's probably going to be a pretty depressing album, if his biological clock is still ticking."

"Yeah, but the sad stuff is Chris at his best."

"I thought that was you, y'know with the whole 'I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry' Bit."

"It's both of us, apparently. Being in a boy band fucks you up. But why waste valuable time in talking about it?" Sebastian lazily began to unbutton his shirt at that point, and well... Anthony _was_ already done with his breakfast, so why say no?

~

**And the One Time He Did the Leading**

When Evans did come back, he was very focused and the songs came fast and easy. The Russo Brothers were pretty mellow, as far as music producers went, and Anthony had multiple chances to show off his skills with the guitar that had graced the cover of Evans' second solo album.

The music was, as he and Sebastian had predicted, very, very depressing. Between songs about death, plane crashes, Alzheimer's Disease, and some truly weird shit about being frozen alive, The Winter Project was a very sharp departure indeed from the poppy silliness of Fantastic 4.

"If I had a uterus, I'd almost offer to get knocked up myself. Help push the snooze button on his biological clock," Anthony said to Sebastian at the wrap party. Four months after they'd began the journey towards The Saddest Pop Project From a Former Boy Bander Ever, Sebastian's hair was back to being black. It was a better look for him, both in bed and out of it. It definitely looked better underneath Sebastian's ridiculous cowboy hat.

Sebastian laughed into his wine. "I'm sure you'd make very beautiful babies."

"Ours would be the most gorgeous babies to ever owe half their DNA to Boston," Anthony declared. "Speaking of babies, what's your next project? Nashville calling you, or what?"

It wasn't the smoothest of transitions, and Anthony knew full well that Sebastian was not headed towards Nashville. But Anthony leaned back onto the leather couch and pretended that he hadn't just made the least smooth of probing questions ever.

"Not Nashville, no. I don't know... Chris will probably tour to support the album sometime around April. But until then, my schedule's kind of free. I mean, there's this _guy_ I've been kind of seeing, but I think he's getting ready to fly across the country, so .... " Sebastian's hands hand a magical talent for finding their way into jeans that should have absolutely zero extra room, and it was a talent that he displayed at the moment.

It was impressive, both in the way that it defied physics and in the way that it made Anthony want to remove those pants each and every time.

"So why don't you just go with him?" Anthony demanded.

"Yeah?" The expression was hopeful, in the kind of way that was going to make Anthony heap on the praise kink the next time those pants did in fact come off, because yeah, apparently being in a boy band _did_ fuck you up.

"Well, you know... I hear his roommate ran away to do hair for a pop star, so he's a bit lacking in the roommate department," Anthony commented, and he couldn't help but chuckle at that. Pratt had been an amazing roommate, and Anthony was going to miss him.

But that raccoon chair was getting donated as soon as he got back to New York.

"Wow, that's rough," Sebastian said. "You know, I bet he could use some company, now that the roommate's gone and all."

"Especially now that he's getting ready to open up a bar, because the world outside of New Orleans needs to be exposed to good gumbo and milk punch," Anthony answered. "And make no mistake, it will be the _best_ gumbo in Brooklyn, but think how much he's going to need someone he likes around to help him relax after a long day."

"Think he'd let me play a set or two at this bar of his?"

"Man, don't push it."

Sebastian laughed, and it really was a good look on him. "Alright," he agreed. "That sounds like a plan."

"An amazing plan," Anthony corrected, and Sebastian did not argue.

**Author's Note:**

> Visual and video references!
> 
>  
> 
> [the bordering-on-soft-core porn poster that Evans did to promote his first solo album](http://36.media.tumblr.com/b74f83a30bc9c9b4e8cdae0c561c37b8/tumblr_n8cqodyaUU1tegrn7o5_1280.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> [the bordering-on-soft-core porn poster that Evans did to promote his second album](http://data1.whicdn.com/images/49814090/original.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> [ Chris Pratt shipping himself with Chris Evans](http://profeminist.tumblr.com/post/103165178562/chris-pratt-no-homophobe-image-source)
> 
>  
> 
> [Stan's interesting hair choices](http://uncensoredsideblog.tumblr.com/post/104353679424/sebastian-stan-about-his-broadway-stage-debut)
> 
>  
> 
> [Chris Pratt talking about his weight and 7 pound turds](http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20833850,00.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [Chris Evans' thing with hooking up with exes over tacos](http://www.usmagazine.com/celebrity-news/news/first-pictures-chris-evans-kisses-on-again-girlfriend-minka-kelly-2012210)
> 
>  
> 
> [ Anthony Mackie's appreciation of Khloe and her sisters](http://www.entertainmentwise.com/news/146074/Captain-Americas-Anthony-Mackie-Wants-To-Keep-Up-With-Khloe-Kardashian)
> 
>  
> 
> Anthony Mackie does not care for your shitty New Orleans food. No really, you need to know good [gumbo already.](http://www.grubstreet.com/2013/10/anthony-mackie-nobar-gumbo-opening.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [ Anthony Mackie's thing with giving pastry nick names to his buddies.](http://teamcoco.com/video/anthony-mackie-is-bffs-with-ryan-gosling?playlist=x;eyJ0b3RhbCI6MTAsInR5cGUiOiJyZWxhdGVkIiwiaWQiOjgwNjM2fQ)
> 
>  
> 
> [Anthony Mackie's sister just wants him to have some sense and not die horribly](http://teamcoco.com/video/anthony-mackie-was-only-black-man-in-hawaii?playlist=x;eyJ0b3RhbCI6MTAsInR5cGUiOiJyZWxhdGVkIiwiaWQiOjgwNjM2fQ)


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